TPIE GKEAT UNKi^owisr A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS {From ihe Oerman of Schœnthan and Kaddburg) by AUGUSTIN DALY nî'.i As Acted at Daly's Theatre por the First Time, October 22,1889 NEW YORK Privatklt Pbintbd for thb Author as Manuscript Only i* 1890 THE GEEAT UNKNOWN A OOMEDT IN THREE ACTS {From the German of Schcenthan and KadeRmrg), by AUGUSTIN DALY As Acted at Daly's Theatbe for the First Time, October 22, 1889 NEW YORK puyatelt Printed for the Attthor as Mamcscrift Only 1890 DRAMATIS PERSONS AND ORIGINAL CAST. MR. JEREMIAH JARRAWAY, rather a large-sized Mouse, like¬ wise a somewhat full-grown Moth, but offering a lively illustration of two familiar fables, . . . Mr. James Lewis. NED DREEMER, "Cousin Ned," who went away a Methuselah, and returns "a Daisy," Mb. John Drew. THE O'DONNELL DON, with a proverb for every occasion, Mr. Frederick Bond. TOM PROWDE, in the Musical line, with a penchant for his pupils, Mr. Sidney Herbert. PATRICK, an indispensable in the Jarraway household, Mr. T. Cronin. ETNA, Lu8U8 Naturœ, combination of Mouse and Puss, no other specimen known to exist Miss Ada Rehan. PANSY, her sister, Miss Isabel Irving. MRS. ARABELLA JARRAWAY, the felihe article of the Prov¬ erb, who returns in season to catch the frolicking rodents Mrs. Anne Yeamanb. AUNT PENELOPE, a Protecting Angel as well as an Avenging Spirit, and taking a deal of enjoyment out of both, SXRS Gr GrIXiBE(R7 SHIRLEY MUNKITTRIGK, her niece, a young widow with His¬ trionic aspirations, Miss Sara Chalmers. MISS TWITTERS, Mentor and Guide to the demoiselles Jar¬ raway Miss Nit a Sykes. MLLE. AGATHE, Arabella's companion, . . Miss Adelaide Prince. The entire action of the comedy passes in the Jarraway Reception and Sitting Room. Ten days are supposed to intervene between the first and second acts. The third act follows one day later. ACT I. Afternoon : Cousin Ned telephones for the Unknown to return. 1 ACT II. Evening : Aunt Penelope finds Number Three, and Etna studies the sweetest lesson of life. ACT III. . Morning : The taming of the Tartar. ACT I. Scene.—The Drawing-room at the Jarraways. Furnished in taste, hut not too richly. Door At rise of curtain, Patrick is discovered opening the piano and placing the stool in front. He picks up a piece of music and looks over it. Patrick. Here's what they he's always a-playin' now. [^Spells.^ F-A-U-S-T—Fust ! I wonder what that is now ! The rest of it is in some furrin' language.—\_7\irns it over and upside down. Pansy is heard outside. "Now I'm ready." Patrick hastily puts music on piano and goes to door c., as Pansy and Prowde enter c. l. He is a styl¬ ish young fellow, and is drawing off his gloves as he enters. She is a very young girl, in white\ Pansy, \To Prowde.] You're punctual to the minute, as usual. And so am I, this time. Ihm. [ With easy familiarity.1 So you are. It's a great improvement. Pan. You hush ! [To Patrick.] Go and tell papa I am going to take my lesson now. [As Patrick is about to exit."] 4 the great unknown. Stop, Patrick, if papa is asleep over his paper, you needn't wake him. Pat. Yes, Miss ! [^Looking offi,., stops."] There he is now. Miss—in the library. And sure I think he's asleep— he's holding his paper upside down. \^Exit c. r.] Pan. Oh, very well. [Goes to piano, looking over music, and Prowde runs his fingers over the keys^ Let's play very softly, so we won't disturb papa. Oh, here's our duo ! [Spreads a piece of music on the piano before him, and oc¬ casionally looking off in the direction of her father^ Oh, Tom, what a dream I had about you. I thought you were giving piano lessons to a beautiful woman, who gazed at you with all her eyes—and when I rushed in to separate you, she froze me with the words : " Y am his wife." Tom. [Leaning over piano, after a glance off at c.] Why don't you ever dream of the time when you can say : "I am his wife ! " Then it would come true. Pan. [Romantically.^ Oh, this suspense—this secresy— it's dreadful. Tom. Then let me speak to your papa to-day. Pan. No, no—not yet. You must become great—dis¬ tinguished. 2hm. And must we wait so long: ? Pan. Love will sustain us. [They play the last part of the duo from " Faust " after first looking off to see if her father is still sleeping."] Adagio. Kiss. -l- IS?:- m f r ' r Kiss. Kiss. is* - m Interruption. the great unknown. 5 [Ned appears at c. and watches the group. At the passages marked in the music Tom and Pansy kissi\ Ned. [ Quizzically eying them through his glass^ Is that piece very long ? [Tom and Pansy give a start apart, then finish the piece fiortissimo, awaking Jeremiah, who enters at L. arch.^ Jeremiah. [In dressing-gown—slippers—paper in hand, and spectacles on head¡\ That was fine—very fine—I like that piece very much—very much, Pansy. Ned. [Advancing b.] So do I, Pansy. Jer. [Seeing him.'] Eh ? Why, Ned, is that yod ? This is a surprise, my dear boy. Pan. [ Coming forward half ashamed.] Why, I never saw you come in. Cousin Neddie. Ned. [Crosses to her.] No ? I suppose you were too much absorbed in your lesson. [Looks at Tom.] Your music teacher, I presume ? Tom. [Advancing down i..] At your service ! [Slight bow.] Ned. I thought so. Jer. [Introducing.] A—a—Mr. Thomas Prowde, he—a— takes a very limited number of pupils. We were so lucky as to get him. Pansy seems to improve wonderfully under his teaching. Ned. So I perceive. [To Pansy. Aside and smiling.] He seems to have a new system of making his lessons interesting —eh, little puss ? Pan. [Èntreatingly to him.] Oh, Cousin Neddie, hush, please. I'll tell you everything. Ned. [Aside to her, gravely.] I hope so—otherwise [ Glancing toward Jeremiah meaningly?^ Tom. [ "Who has been speaking to Jeremiah.] You know the hour isn't up yet—in fact, we had only just commenced. Jer. Never mind—that'll do for to-day. Tom. Very well. [7'o Pansy.] We can make up for it next time. Jer. Oh, you needn't bother about that. [7b Ned.] He's too conscientious. [Tom goes up c. and nods to Pansy to follow.] Ned. [Detecting the nod.] Did you want, to speak to me ? Oh, I thought you made a sign. Tom. [Embarrassed.] No—oh, no. I merely wished to say good-morning. [Lays the roll of sheet music on a chair, with a meaning glance at Pansy, and goes wjt>.] Good-morn¬ ing ! [Exit c. and r.] Jer. Good-morning, good-morning. Pan. Good gracious ! He's forgotten his music 1 6 the great unknown. Jer, Run after him and give it to him. Pan. [Eagerly.^ I will ! [ Takes up music and exits, c. and r.] «Ter. Pansy's a fine girl, isn't she ? Ned. Yes ; but I'd watch the music-teacher. Jer. Oh, I do. I sit in the library there—with both of 'em in my eye—all through the lesson. JNed. [ Quizzically.'] Oh, then there's no danger. But where's my little tomboy, Etna ? What is she doing ? Jer. Oh, you will be surprised at Etna ! She's grown up a perfect model—quiet, reserved, self-possessed, a regular young lady—for one so young. Such a change ! You re¬ member we couldn't do anything with her. Ned. \_Look8 around.] She must be grown very quiet. I haven't heard a sound. Jer. She's out visiting a friend. Polly has just gone to bring her home. Ned. And how's your wife ? Jer. Ahenl I [^Goughs.] Oh, she's very well. Ned. Is she at home ? Jer. \Coughs again.] N—no. Ned. Sorry ; I'll call this evening and see her. Jer. Ahem ! She won't be home this evening. Ned. No ? Jer. The fact is, Ned, she's away—been away some time. Ned. Some time ? Jer. You see, things have changed since you were here last. Ned. Let me see—when I was here last—that's quite five years ago—she had just made her debut as an authoress— volume of poems, I believe, wasn't it ? Entitled " Italian Sky." Jer. [ With a faint gleam of pride^ Yes—" Italian Sky " —pretty good for a person who had never been under it. But she's gone there now. Ned. And how long has she been gone ? Jer. Let's see. Etna will be eighteen next May. Arabella's been away three years now. Ned. Why, it's a regular divorce, old boy. Jer. Well, you see, she says she can't write with all the children's clatter. First she tried shutting herself up on the top floor with her books and her pens and ink—wooing the muse, as she Called it, day and night. Ned. Busy as that ? Jer. Oh, she was run down with orders. She didn't take any pay, you know. The girls and I used to grope up into the attic occasionally to see her, but she was generally too absorbed to notice us. THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 7 Ned. I say, what do you think of her poems, anyway ? Jer. Oh, I never read 'em. I'm no judge. Ned. You're very proud of her, of course. Jer. I was, at first, before she got to be famous—when she was anonymous—the "Great Unknown" they called her. After that, we began to give receptions and all that, and I found myself crowded out onto the kitchen stairs and walked over by the waiters—the children neglected—servants idle and insolent, and the house going to the devil generally. I've heard a good deal about the influence of literature elevat¬ ing the social condition of man, but I guess beyond a certain point it kind o' reacts, [ßinks in chair, L. c.] Ned. [Smiling.^ Poor old chap. Jer. You know she wrote under a nom de ploom. Ned. Oh, yes—" Alpha." Jer. Yes, "Alpha." Well, after awhile they began to call me " Omega." Ned. \ljiaughsi\ I see, she was " first," and you were " last." Jer. I didn't quite understand it at the start. I thought Omega was the name of some Irish fellow. But a good na- tured friend explained it to me. It's stuck to me ever since. Ned. Why didn't you assert yourself ? Jer. You can't assert yourself with a woman who don't depend upon you for happiness. She got into a crowd that made her dizzy. I wasn't necessary, so I^asn't considered. Ned. And to think what a jolly, practical, good New England housekeeper she used to be. Jer. {Brightening^ Wasn't she? We were the jolliest couple that ever went to Niagara Falls on a wedding tower. And to think after fifteen years she'd break out in a rash like this ! Ned. You correspond, of course ? Jer. Yes, I drop her a line once a week, or so—tell her everything's all right. She told me not to worry her if there was anything unpleasant, as it upset her, and knocked her muse ! So I got up a couple of letter forms and used them turn and turn about. [ Crosses E. and laughs.^ Ned. You seem to be cheerful under it all. Jer. Oh, I get on tip-top now. {Leaning over sofa.'] It was hard at first. I felt like a sheep that had been locked out of pasture ; but I've met a few "rollicking rams".at the club—chaps similarly situated, more or less, and we manage pretty well. Ned. And your children, the girls ? 8 THE GREAT UNKNOWN. Jer. [Subdued a bit.^ Well, they're sometimes a bother. But that s because I take pains to look after them personally; and I think, without flattering myself, that two better girls, free from boldness or frivolity or deceit, you won't easily find. But I can't be with 'em all the time. Ned. Certainly not. Jer. Yes, you see I've been induced by one of tlie chaps at the club to interest myself personally in a most surprising genius, that is preparing to burst forth from the social ranks, and bound into the dramatic arena. Ned, Ah, indeed ! Your genius is of the feminine gen¬ der, of course ? Jer. Of course. You must have heard of her—Mrs. Mun- kittrick. [Chuckles.^ Ned. The pretty widow ? Oh, yes. The society papers are full of her. Jer. Yes, that's the one. Splendid family. Husband left her without a cent; determined to make her own way; thirsts for fame and the footlights. Ned. I see ; going to step from the drawing-room to the stage. How did you come to know her ? Jer. Didn't I tell you—introduced by a friend. She's so sweet—so unaflFected. Oh, I encouraged her, and she takes my advice so naturally—so—so—I can't see her often enough. I've been in the seventh heaven of delight for months. Ned. Rather marked attention, eh ? Jer. Oh, I manage that beautifully. You know the ad¬ age : " If you want the daughter, court the mother." Ned. Ah—there's a mother? Jer.—Not exactly, but an aunt. Same thing. I spent a month with 'em at Saratoga this summer. The Doctor ordered the Springs for the old lady, with plenty of exercise. I took it with her ; it nearly killed me, but I had my reward. Ned, Indeed ! What? Jer. I'm the favorite. Ned. Of the niece ? Jer. No, the aunt. But the other'll come. For the pres¬ ent I'm indispensable to the old girl. We play cribbage to¬ gether every night—nickel points. I see the agents for her, manage the interviewers—in fact, do all her errands, and she seems to have an uncommon lot of 'em. Ned. Why, this isn't fun—it's hard work. Jer. That's so ; and sometimes I feel I could murder that old woman. But when Shirley happens in the room Ned. Shirley ? the great unknown. 9 Jer. Mrs. Munkittrick, the widow, you know. Her name's Shirley. She lets me call her Shirley for short, and when she happens in the room, I'm pacified—I'm entranced—fascinated. You understand. [Pokes him in theribs.^ N'ed. Not exactly, but that's immaterial. Jer. [Glancing up stage.^ Sh ! Here comes Miss Twitters, my daughters' governess. Miss Twitters enters, r. u. d., a dignified and quiet lady. Miss Twitters. Oh, I beg pardon ! I didn't [Stops.^ Jer. Don't be afraid. This is Cousin Ned you've heard the girls and me speak of. Miss T. [ With some anxiety.'] I came to ask you, sir, if you knew where Miss Etna is. Polly has come back without her. Jer. What ! Why, she went to the Hornblowers' after¬ noon dance. Miss T. No, she did not. Their dance was postponed on account of measles in the nursery. Jer. Then where can she be ? Send Polly out again, and telephone to as many people as you can reach. I hope there's no accident. Ned. I wouldn't alarm myself. It's only one of her little tricks. I know her. Jer. No—no—not at all. Didn't I tell you she's completely changed? She's a model girl. [EttTsx^s, voice is heard off J..] Etna. [Outside^ Somebody with hi ni ? Who is it ? Jer. There she is. Etna comes in r. u. d., in a gale, out of breath, skating hat and jacket on, and with a roll, apparently of music, under her arm. Mtna. Who's been looking for me ? Here I am. [Looks at Ned, without recognizing him, and goes to Jeremiah, giving him a Well, papa dear, did you want me ? [Looking at Ned, half coquettishly.] I heard there was somebody with you. [Aside to Jeremiah.] Who is it ? He looks nice. Ned. Well, Pussy, don't you know me ? Ntna. Pussy ! Well, that's cheeky, I must say. [Pecog- nizing him.] Why—well, if it isn't Cousin Ned ! Well, this is a go. [Takes her hat off and throws it to Miss Twitters, shaking her hair loose. Miss Twitters exits with hat.] Ned. Aren't you going to shake hands with me ? Etna. [Punning to him.] Here, take 'em both. [They shake hands warmly.] Let's have a real good look at you. 10 THE GREAT UNKNOWN. My ! haven't you grown handsome ! and you don't look a bit old. Why, when Í was a kid, I thought you were a regular Methuselah; but you ain't—you're a regular daisy ! Jer. Etna, Etna ! You mustn't say everything you think. Remember you're a young lady now. Etna. [Going to Jeremiah and holding his face in her hands.l Was it a jealous old daddy? Don't be afraid. It was a handsome old boy all by itself. [Turns to look at Ned.] But Cousin Ned's real scrumptious. Jer. Now, you rogue, tell us where you've been all this time. Ena. [Eoldly.\ Where 've I been all this time ? I've been at the Hornblowers'. Jer. [Embarrassed, exchanging glances with Ned.] The Hornblowers' ? Ned. [Aside.'\ Pretty good for a model girl ! Jer. [Leading her on to commit her self.\ And what sort of a time did you have at the Hornblowers' ? Etna. [Evidently making it vp as she goes ow.] Oh, stupid ! Nobody but school-girls—perfectly insipid—one harmless little cadet, but he was too fresh for anything. There was dancing—that is, the girls danced with one another. At last it grew so dull that somebody proposed post-office. Post-office among girls—that settled me. I bolted. [Stage, e.] Jer. [To with severity.^ Now I'm going to make an example of her. [Aloud to Etna.] Are you sure you've told me the whole truth, miss ? Etna. [Carelessly^ Every time, popsy ! Jer. Indeed, miss ! And what if I tell you that you haven't been near the Hornblowers' to-day ? Etna. [Aside."] Oh, lor' ! Here's a pretty mess ! Jer. Polly went there and couldn't find you. The party's postponed on account of measles. Ena. [Eursts into tears.] Oh, daddy ! oh ! oh ! Jer. [Aside to Ned.] You see, it breaks her right down— she's awfully sensitive. Etna. [Raising her head, and indignantly^ You ought to be ashamed of yourself to let me go on and tell a story be¬ fore Cousin Ned. What will he think of me ? It's real mean. I don't love you at all—I don't. [. [7b Mrs. Munkittrick, offering his arm.] Permit me. Mrs. M. With pleasure. [Pets her hand in his arm, and he takes it up and kisses it frequently."] Come, come—that's enough. 0'7>. Not for me ! In Ireland we have a proverb, " Nuair a suidefead tu air crann silin it na silinide," ' the great unknown. 27 which means, " When you sit in a cherry-tree, eat the cher¬ ries." Well, I've had a hard time to find my cherry-tree— so don't you think ? Mrs. M. That will do. Come along. By-by, Auntie. O'D. By-by, Jeremiah ; by-by ! Jer. Dash it ! Hang it! We've got a proverb in New York [As he sits at table., glaring at Penelope, and as the others go off, c.] But that'll keep ! Curtain. ACT II. Same Scene.—Evening. At the l., opposite the card-table, is a round table, on which is a lighted lamp. The fire is alight and sheds a red glow on the scene. There is a lighted lamp also on the piario, and a lamp is lighted in the library. Etna is sitting at the l. of the table, her elbows on it, sucking a pen-handle, and watching Miss Twitters, who is perusing a composition, with her glasses on. Miss Twitters. [Finishing the reading as the curtain rises, and looking at Etna severely, and in a severe tone^ Well, if this doesn't beat everything. At your father's special request, Missi I have given you studies in American History for the past seven weeks ; and now, when I request from you a short composition on the subject of the Pilgrim Fathers, and their character and influence, you give me this. Etna. Isn't it good ? Miss T. Good ? It's flippancy—it's— ! Let me read a passage: " The only original-Pilgrim Fathers landed on De¬ cember 21, a:d. 1620. They were emigrants, but they did not come from Ireland, like other emigrants. They were Eng¬ lish. This was how the early English got a footing in this country. They landed at Plymouth Bock. The rock is worn away, but the Pilgrims are here. That shows they are harder than rocks. There were also several Pilgrim Mothers, but they were all called Fathers. Likewise the children." Is this in- 28 THE GREAT UNKNOWN. tended as a contribution for the last page of the Bazaar^ or is it your idea of an historical essay ? Etna. Well, I thought I'd try and make it spicy and attrac¬ tive, like the comic histories in Cousin Neddie's library. Pansy enters, r. Miss Twitters. You will please present me with a serious composition on the subject, or I shall report to your father, [Hands papef back.^ Pan. [Has entered from r. u. d., studying from a book which she shuts up and clasps to her breast as she comes for¬ ward, repeating the lesson to herself in dumb show.\ Now, Miss Twitters, will you hear me fire away ? [ Opens book and hands it.'] Miss T. Your sister will hear you. [Gives the book to Etna.] I am employed elsewhere. [Takes up her work- basket and goes slowly off, l. arch.] Pan. [Reciting in a sing-song style to Etna, who holds the book, but watches Miss Twitters go off.] " Christopher Columbus left school when he was very young, and went to sea for fifteen years, when he got married, and his wife's father was a sailor, too, and " [At this point Miss Twitters has disappeared and Etna tosses the book on a sofa and jumps up.] Etna. Sh^s gone ! Hooray ! [Runs quickly to a cabi¬ net at c., opens it, and looking round to see if she is observed, takes from it a bound novel, with which she runs to an arm¬ chair at L. of table and curls herself up to read.] Where did I leave off ? Oh ! here it is. [Settles herself and reads.] " But while uttering these words, that sounded like a last farewell, Zenobia turned ; her dark eyes flashed with the fire of volcanic passion, and she suddenly flung herself into the strong clasp of Sir Guy, twining her beautiful arms around his manly neck, while her finely cut lips sought to devour the words ere they fell from his beautifully chiselled mouth ! *' Pan. What on earth's that ? Ena. [ Cautiously.] Mamma's last novel—I bought it at Brentano's. Oh, it's lollypop, I tell you. Pan. Lollypop ? [Affectedly.] Dear, dear Etty, where do you get such expressions ? Ena. What's the matter with you ? Pan. Never mind ; go on. [Kneels on chair at back of table and leans over ¿í.j What becomes of the lovers ? THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 29 Etna. Oh, they have such a scene ! [Reada.^ " Supporting her trembling form in his muscular arms, he led her to the marble bench beside the plashing fountain, and clasping her un¬ resisting hand, he poured forth, in accents wrung from the depths of his surcharged soul—" Ran. [Efas held oäie end of the booJc, and now joins in reading.—" the long pent-up declaration of his quenchless passion ! " Etna. \Looks up as they pause and gasps a breath.^ Oh, isn't it strong ! [^Reads, while Ned enters quietly at back and overhears.'] " And now," he said, " that we must part—that we must tear these fetters of our hopeless love— " Ran. [Taking it up and reading.] "—must end this dream in which we lived, as if for countless ages, in one delirious vision—" Etna. [Co7itinuing.] "—must wake from the sleep that opened glimpses of a world of rapture—oh, angel—woman— goddess—farewell—farewell—fa-re-well ! " Ned. [Quizzically. ] Good-by! [The girls jump up in alarm.] Etna. Cousin Ned ! Ned. Yes. Miss Twitters told me you were at your lessons. What were you doing ? Ran. Reading. Etna. Mamma's last novel. Ned. So you deceived your governess ? Ena. [Bursts into laughter.] Oh, poor Miss Twitters ! We worked the racket beautifully on her. [Stops suddenly at a look from Ned,] Ned. What? Etna. I know—I know—I wasn't to talk that way any more ; but you came in so suddenly, I forgot. Ned. [ TR'íA mock gravityI apologize. It shall not occur again. Etna. Now you're chaffing. [Ricks up a school-book from table, l,, and reads, while Pansy sits at table and pretends to be studying from another?^ But I really have been hard at work. Cousin Neddie—and I've stowed a lot. [Gives him the book, opened at a certainpagei] You just see me take a fall out of my " Universal History." [He takes the book, and she steps back a pace or two, puts her hands behind her, and re¬ cites rapidly.] "The next reign was that of Sultan Mah¬ moud. We are told that by his perpetual wars abroad and his tyranny at home he depopulated his empire, and at last 30 the great unknown. roused his subjects to rebellion." How's that ? Haven't I got tlie old jay down fine ? Ked. Old jay ? [^Pretends to look in hookJ\ I don't find that passage. Etna. [^Closes the book in his hand."] I forgot again. I'll study ten more pages as punishment. Then you won't be angry with me ; will you ? Ned. \^Itises amused.^ I'm not angry. Etna. Then I'm not angry with myself. But I did intend to be very severe. I wanted to have a nice long chat with you; but now I shall go straight to my room [Crosses, tl.'] and copy my rule sixty times. Do you know what rule I've written in my copy-book ? [Traces imaginary lines with ßnger.^ " Think twice before you speak once." Isn't that good ? Ned. Excellent. But don't punish yourself too severely. Etna. [Eïrmly.^ I must. I said I would, and I'll stick to it. Don't detain me. [Goes to door, r., and then returns.'] But I can shake hands with you all the same. [Shakes his hand and marches off / stops at door.] I guess, as I'm so good, I needn't copy it more than thirty times. [Eheit, b. u. d., laughing.] Ned. [Looking after her.] Little witch ! Pan. [Looking up from hook, looking round cautiously, then rising, and mysteriously.] Cousin Ned ! Ned. What is it ? Pan. We are going to have one another. Ned. How? [Not comprehending at first—then struck.] Oh, I see ; you and the gentleman at the piano ? [Pansy nods.] Has your papa given his consent ? Pan. Papa doesn't know a word about it. We are going to ask mamma. Ned. Have you written ? Pan. No. Tom is going to see her. Ned. What, going to Europe ? Pan. He's gone to engage his passage now. Wasn't that a happy thought ? It was mine ! Oh ! I'm so happy 1 I'm so happy ! [Skips off, r. u. d.] Ned. And she's on her way home now. Jeremiah enters l. arch, dressed quite youthfully. Jeremiah. Hello, Ned ; that you, old man? [Goes to mantel, down l., and adjusts a rose in his button-hole.] How's this, eh? THE GEEAT UNKNOWN. 31 Ned. Very neat. You look quite youthful. Jer. Do I ? Do you know, somehow I never felt so full of life? I believe if you'd lend me a back in a game of leap¬ frog, I could go over you like a bird. Shall we try ? Ned. No. I don't want to be responsible for the conse¬ quences. Jer. I feel so full of go—vigor—youth. I don't know why, but it's so. \Dances a step or tioo.\ Ned. I don't know why either ; but the way you skip about reminds me Jer. \^Cheerfully.'\ Reminds you of what? Out with it ! Ned. Of the way little boats spin around just before they go over Niagara. Take care ! Jer. Take care ? Stuff ! What are you driving at ? Ned. Your little romance with the fair Munkittrick. I'm a little doubtful about the propriety and the result—as far as your happiness is concerned. Jer. \Toying with the flower in his hutton-hole.'\ Think so, eh ? Well, where do you suppose I got this rosebud ? Ned. From her? Jer. From her, old man. \Both sit.^ You know I take, her to the theatre in my carriage every day and evening—with her aunt, of course. She's rehearsing nights and mornings for her début, you know. Last night, as I was bringing her home, her bouquet—my bouquet—rolled out of her lap in the car¬ riage, and we both stooped to pick it up. My dear boy, her hand came in contact with my hand for an instant ; I gave it a little squeeze—it was returned ! And this rosebud remained as a trophy ! What do you say to that ? [Slapping his shoulder.^ Ned. And what did the aunt say ? Jer. Oh, she was groping around the bottom of the car¬ riage, and never suspected a thing. [Seriously.^ But, talking of the aunt, I've humored her so long that I can't shake her off. [Ihkes a sheet of foolscap from his pocket.'] Here's a list of things she wants me to do. She makes out one like that every day. She wants me to take her to a Christian Sci¬ ence matinée to-morrow, [.ßfses, flrmly.] But I can't. I haven't the time. I say, old fellow, that would be something for you. Ned. You want to throw me to the aunt like a tub to a whale. Jer. [ Coaxingly.] Do it for my sake. Take her about for a week or so, till I've weaned her. Eh ? [Forces paper, etc., on him.] Here's your list of errands for to-day ; here's 32 the great unknown. your tickets for the matinée, and in the evening—\Pointa to card-table down r.] you have your little game of cribbage. Ned. At a nickel a point ? Jer. Yes. You get a good deal of pleasure for the money if you like the game. [ Goes to table and gets out cards, etc. Aho vial of drops.'l Here's everything, ready. Here are your drops, too. Ned. In case I have a headache. \^Shakes his hand.^ You think of everything. Penelope enters, as if from the street, at c. l. Jeremiah rushes up to her. Jer. My dear Mrs. Prime. How glad I am you've dropped, in. You know Cousin Ned ? Penelope. {^Bows and shakes hands with Ned.] I have the pleasure. [Ned adjusts his eye-glasses and enjoys the following .*] Jer. \Aside to /ler.] Charming fellow ! [Aloud.l We were just speaking of you—in terms of the profoundest rever¬ ence, of course. Especially Ned. Pen. l^Smiling.'] Indeed ! Jer. Yes. He actually said—but there, I won't betray him. The point of it is, that he's dying to make a third in our little friendly partnership. Pen. \^Smiling.'\ Indeed ! Jer. He insists upon doing some of your errands to be¬ gin with. Pen. \Same.'] Indeed ! Jer. Yes. [Aside, annoyed.^ What the deuce does she always say," Indeed ! " for? [Aloud and gayly.^ And he asks as a particular favor to take my place at cribbage. Pen. Indeed ! [Smiling.] I think I understand. You waht to back out. Jer. [Deprecating^ Oh ! Pen. Oh, yes. But don't be uneasy, I'm quite willing. There's a small obstacle to Cousin Ned, though. Jer. What obstacle ? Pen. [Turns to Ned,] He's been there before. Jer. What ? Pen. We've been partners already. Jer. You have ! Pen. When we were abroad. He was very attentive to Shirley through an entire winter at Nice. Jer. He was? THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 33 Pen. Yes. He thought the best way to win the niece was to make love to the aunt. Jer. \Aside.^ My little game ! Pen. He overwhelmed me with attentions for three months, walked miles with me before breakfast, and played cribbage every evening. Jer. l^Aside, grimly¡\ The vile hypocrite ! Pen. Those were happy days ! [Goes to Ned.] And when I lost you I thought all was over—didn't I ? N^ed. I don't dare flatter myself. Pen. [Turns to Jekemiah.] But when I came home and you turned up [Jeeemiah smks in a chair by table, e.] and began to make love to the aunt for the niece, I revived. [Turns to Ned.] I dropped a silent tear over the grave of the departed. You became only a sainted memory ! [Offers her hand to Ned, and then goes up.^ Ned. [Pressing her hand?^ Peace to his ashes ! [ Goes to card-table, adjusts cards, hoard, etc. Shakes Jeeemiah's hand, presses his ßngers in silent benediction on the tatter's head, and exits, c. l. Penelope has gone to lay aside her shawl and wrap at l. arch, and now comes forward.^ Pen. Why so silent ? Jer. Silent ? No—I—T was thinking, and nothing oc¬ curred to me. [ Casually.\ Shan't we have our little game ? [iSees table and cards beside A¿m.] Why, here are the cards —how fortunate ! Pen. [Laughs¡\ No—no—my dear Jeremiah, that's all over. No more cribbage. Jer. "No more. [Pises.^ Pen. No. I shall have to give you warning. You have only yourself to blame for it. I allude to your imprudence last night in the carriage. Jer. [Alarmed.^ What imprudence ? Pen. [Withmild reproof. \ I see you are still wearing iiiy rosebud. Jer. Yours ? Pen. If my niece knew that you had taken that opportu¬ nity to squeeze my hand Jer. [Palls back in chair, hopelessly.^ I got the wrong hand. Pen. Don't be alarmed—the secret is safe. Jer. Thank you. Pen. But—never again ! Jer. [W^ith energy.Never ! It wouldn't have happened last night if I had thought it was you. [ Correcting himself. ] I mean if I had thought you wouldn't like it. 34 [the geeat unknown, Pen. \^Sternly.'\ How could you possibly suppose I would like it? :e was returned. to myself, " Poor Jeremiah. He does so much for so little. He deserves to have some comfort." So I returned your press¬ ure. Jer. [^Sarcastically.^ That was very sweet of you. Pen. No, it was not. I ought not to have gone so far. The very next minute I said to myself, " What would Iiis wife think ? " Jer. [Alarmed.'\ Don't mention it. [Reassured.^ But who's to tell her? Pen. Oh, she'll hear it from me. Jer. What ? Do you know Arabella ? Pen. Do I know Arabella ? Why, I write to her once a week. I keep her posted regularly as to what's going on. We're right good friends. Jer. [Aside.^ That's horrible ! Horrible ! [Aloudi\ Why didn't you tell me ? Pen. I wanted to surprise you sometime. Jer. You've succeeded. [Crosses r., sits.'\ Pen. [Sits on sofa.^ We met in Paris. She took a great deal of interest in my niece's studies for the stage, and intro¬ duced her extensively. Jer. Introduced her? To a lot of gormandizing toadies? Pen. Arabella is the centre of a literary and artistic circle. Jer. And to think that when I married that girl in Con¬ necticut she could cook more pies in a given time than any other woman in the State. And now she's lost all her old am¬ bition. How does she get on with the Parley-woos? Pen. She has eccentricities, but they are looked upon as proofs of genius. Jer. Are they? [Crosses e.] Well, I guess Paris is the place for her. Folks here would laugh over Arabella's poetry. I heard one fellow in a corner say it was a " hash," and an¬ other fellow in a corner say it was " trash." Ever read any of it yourself ? ^Pen. No, not altogether. But let's leave the books and return to the woman. The way she spoke of you and the children was delightful. She feels, however, that you need a protector, and she made me promise to take jmu under my wing and keep you out of danger. So I encouraged your at¬ tentions to Shirley to keep you under my eye. Pretty clever, wasn't it ? compassion. I said THE GKEAT UNKNOWN. 35 Jer. Was Shirley in the secret ? Pen. Of course. Jer. \_Goes down l., wickedly.'\ You don't know how grate¬ ful I am. [/SYis, l. c.] Pen. Here's your wife's last letter. Look at this passage ; "Continue to watch over my sweet babes and my precious old Jeremiah." You are her precious old Jeremiah ! \^Pises.^ Jer. [Plattered.^ Yes. I'm her precious old Jeremiah. Pen. [ Offers him the letter?^ I want you to look at that " precious." Do you notice any thing particular about it ? Jer. Yes. It's spelt wrong. [Penelope snatches the letter from him.'] But spelling was always Arabella's weak point. Pen. Never mind the spelling, Look at the word again. [ Offers letter.] Jer. \IjOoks at it and spells.] P-R-E-S-I-O-U-S. There's nothing about it, except a big blot. Pen. That blot's a tear. Jer. A tear ! What for ? Pen. Grief ! at separation. Jer. Well, instead of weeping over the paper why don't she come home? Pen. You don't understand. The muse calls, she obeys Î But she looks backward at her loved ones and mourns. Jer. \I)ryly^ I guess Paris is a pretty good place to mourn in; ain't it? \Gazing admiringly at Penelope.] Do you know you're an amazingly smart woman ? Pen. I know I am. And if I can only get you and your Arabella together again Jer. \His face falls.] Don't try it. You don't know Arabella. She's crazv. Pen. [Mysteriously.] Let me whisper you a secret. She's coming home. Jer. Arabella coming home ! When ? Pen. That's her little surprise. [Adjusting her mantle^ Well, I must be going. Jer. Let me go with you. Pen. No. You've run about for me long enough. Besides, it's not necessary. [Goes to window.] I have an escort. There he is, in his cab. [Nods and beckons off at window\ Yes, you may. [Gomes down.] He's coming up. Poor fellow ! He's been out there ever since I came in. Jer. Whoever it is he must be frozen by this time. [Goes to fire.¡ L,] Pen. Oh, he'd willingly freeze for my sake. 36 THE GEEAT UNKNOWN. Jer. That's heroic. Who is he ? Pen. Who is he ? Well, he's No. 3. O'Donnell enters at c., in ulster, the pockets of which are filled with numerous parcels, and he carries some under his arms. Jer, What ? The wild Irishman ? O'Donnell. \Cheerfully to Jeremiah.] How are you? Good-morning ! [7b Penelope.] You see I've been around for you already. Pen. Poor soul ! You must be chilled through. O'D. \P]arnestly.'\ To the bone. [^Cheerily.'] But what of that ? I'll freeze an hour or two longer to please you. Pen. Never mind. We'll drive home at once. Is my car¬ riage there ? O'D. Yes. Just returned. I sent it away to have the foot-warmer rebaked, and to have your umbrella and over¬ shoes brought. And I've got you a nice warm comforter to wrap around your throat. Would you mind taking it out ? It's in my right-hand breast-pocket. Pen. \^Takes out a silk wrap.'] How very thoughtful you are. \_To Jeremiah.] Ah, Jeremiah, No. 8 is best of all. [7b O'Donnell, going over to mantel, l.] I'll be ready directly. O'D. No hurry. Take your time. \Aside to Jeremiah.] How do you think I'm getting on ? I'm doing pretty well, ain't I? Penelope hy a jerk of the head^ The old 'un can't do without me. Jer. Well, you do astonish me! Why, you're making a regular dead set for the old girl. OD. ^Confidentially^ I have my reasons, Jeremiah. You see I've taken a particular interest in Mrs. Munkittrick, and in Ireland we have a proverb, " Ma tas duigean an uig uiaet greamuig an maitreanfi which means, " If you want the niece, secure the aunt," and I'm making love to the old girl for the sake of the young one. Jer. He, too ! Another victim ! O'D. I think it's a good idea ; don't you ? Jer. \Aside, crosses, r.] What a chestnut ! Pen. Now I'm ready. O'D. So am I. [^Looks at her admiringly.] You look stunning ! 'Pon my soul, you do! Stunning I Pen. That piece of flattery was too transparent. You must try again. \Shakes hands with Jeremiah.] THHE GREAT UNKNOWN. 37 O'D. Now I appeal to you, Jeremiah—don't she look like a—like a Jer. Like an old Madeira—yes, CfD. That's it—like an old Madeira. Pen. Well, that's something like. That's a compliment more to my fancy. \^Takes O'Donnell's arm.] 0'7>. How so ? Pen. Because old Madeira has so little body and such taste. [She takes him up, and they go up and off, c., laughing.'\ Ha, ha, ha. Good-by ! [They exeunt^ Jer. [Gazing after them^ Good-by." [Mcits, c.^ So that romance is over. And I'm afraid it's my last one. Well, better leave all that nonsense to the boys. [Goes to piano.^ Ah, Arabella ! if you were only as you used to be twenty years ago, when the worst thing you ever did with pen and ink was to black your thumb. Etna enters from b. u. d. Etna. I've done the thirty. and looks round.'\ Papa, where's Cousin'Neddie gone ? [Down r.] Jer. What do you want Cousin Neddie for ? Etna. Nothing! [Confused, but recovering herself^ Lor', papa, what's the matter with you? Your face is as long as your arm. Jer. [Prightening^ Oh, I'm all right. But I've got something to tell you. Never mind—that'll keep till to¬ morrow. Etna. No, no. Tell me now. I won't sleep a wink all night. Jer. Well, whom would you like most to see ? Etna. [After an instant's pause, then joy fully.'\ Mamma ! Is she coming? [Jeremiah nocfe.] Coming home? [Claps her hands.^ Jer. 'Sh ! Not so loud ! It's a secret ! Ekna. I can't help it. Oh, you dear duck of a pana ! [Seizes him and whirls him round.^ Oh, I wish I had her in my arms now. Jer. [Releasing himself^ You had better speak to Pansy, and arrange between you for making her comfortable when she comes. [ Going, r. Stops, hesitates, then tums.^ For in¬ stance, when she arrives—when she comes—and we are talking over the times when she was away, if there's anything any¬ body's done that might hurt her feelings to know, we won't tell her, will we ? 38 the great unknown. Etna, No, papa. You won't tell on us, will you, papa ? Jer. No. And we mustn't let any false modesty prevent us saying a good word for each Other. I for you and you for me. Etna. Etna. Oh, we'll stick by each other, papa. Jer. That's a bargain ! Etna. A bargain. Jer. And now be good girls and behave ; I'm going to the club for a little while, [Going up, gets his hat from the piano.'\ I can drop in at the theatre and see another rehearsal with that adorable little woman, [Aloud.^ Good-by ! Re¬ member we stick by each other. It's a bargain. Honor bright. [Exit, c. r.] Etna. [Calling after him, boisterously.^ Honor bright, papa. Ned strolls in from l. arch. Eed. What a deal of noise. Ena. Oh, Neddie ! Just fancy ! Mamma's coming home ! Won't we have a splendid time!. Won't we have a house¬ ful of company ! Ned. Yes, probably. Etna. Won't papa be happy ! Won't we all be proud of such a famous mamma ! Won't people envy us ! [Gonfden- tially^ I'm going to get mamma to teach me how to write novels. I know I could just dash off stories like hers every day. Ned. From what I've heard I think you could. Etna. Don't you be sarcastic. Sir. Anyway, if I can't be famous myself I won't marry anybody but a distinguished man. [Throws herself on sofa and cfurls up.'\ Ned. [Leaning over back of sofa.] Do you think that is indispensable for happiness in marriage? Etna. Oh, I think marriage is lots of fun without it; but to have a husband who can write things to set girls crazy; to have them all pointing him out and saying, " There he is ! Did you see him? Let's hurry ahead and get a good look! " Oh ! I wouldn't marry anybody else. I'm going to get mamma to pick me out one from her collection. Ned. [Smiling and going away^\ I'm sorry. I had other plans for you. Ena. You? Plans for me? [flncurling^] About get¬ ting married ? Do you know some one ? Ned. \ Goes toward mantel^ Perhaps. THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 39 Etna. You're a love ! \Goming behind and patting his cheeks.'] Who is it? [Takes his arm.] Is he nice-looking? Ned. [Casting a fugitive glance in the mirror?)^ Oh ! so-so ! Etna. That means he is ! [In ecstasy.] Oh ! oh ! Ñ'ed. [ 'Warningly.] But he's stern ! Etna. [Going aioay, and coquettishly.] Oh, I'll take that out of him in a week. One thing, and the most important : Can he dance ? [Emphatically.] Ned. [Emphatically.] Yes. Etna. [Resolutely.] Then I'll take him. But why doesn't he come and speak right out to me? Ned. I believe he's afraid. « Etna. [Gayly.] Afraid of me? I like that. Then I'll keep him under petticoat government all his life. Ned. Don't tell him so beforehand. Etna. I should smile ! [Correcting herselfI mean I'm not such a goose. But, Cousin Neddie, I want you to do me a favor. Tell me how he'll propose. I want to know what to do and say. I've heard it's an awful moment, and nobody that's not been through it can imagine what it is. O O Ned. [Becoming serious.] It is a rather bad quarter of an hour, I believe. Well, I judge it will be something like this : [He is standing, c., and she is leaning against his shoulder lis¬ tening, hut without looking up at him.] When he finds that he can no longer live without you, he will come, and taking your hand, as I do now, he will ask : [ W^ith feeling?^ " Can you love me ? " Etna. [Startled; becomes serious, casts down her eyes—with¬ draws her hand, and half shivers^ O—oh! I felt something all over me then. [Shivers, and looking into his eyes.] If he asks me like that, I can't possibly say " No." What must I say? Ned. Let your heart answer. If you love Ena. But bow am I to know if I love ? Ned. By two things : the joy and the pain. Etna. [Innocently.] Pain—pain, too ? Ned. The worst in the world—jealousy. Etna. [Lightly and girlishly.] Oh, Pd never be jealous. Ned. That will depend. If you are not in love you can't know jealousy. Now, for instance, if I were to tell you that I loved a girl, you would feel bad, wouldn't you ? Ena. Not a bit. [Stage, b.] Ned. Oh ! [Biting his lip in disappointment] Ena. [Back to c., naturally.] Because I'd know you were only joking. 40 the gkeat ünkn0\<^n. Ned. [Eagerly,^ But if I tell you that I was never more serious in all my life ? Etna. \Slightly excited¡\ Truly ? You are really in love? Ned. [ WarmlyWith all my heart. Etna. \_Agitated.^ And T never knew it ! Ned. But you are glad, for my sake ? Etna. \^Struggling with her feeling.'] Oh, certainly. I'm very glad, of course. Who is it, anyway ? Ned. Oh, I can't tell you that. Etna. [ With a big gulp to hide her feelings, and an effort to laugh.] I think it's funny if you can't tell her name. Ned. She's an angel ! Etna. [ Vexed^ Oh, yes, of course. \TjOoks at Aim.] Why, you're all fire and flame, and your eyes look so—you're actually trembling about the silly thing. Ned. Remember you are speaking of my future wife. Ekna. \IIorrified?] Are you going to marry her ? Ned. If she cares for me. Etna. But she doesn't—not a bit ! Ned. How do you know ? Etna. {Laughs contemptuously.] Don't flatter yourself that every girl that looks at you is in love with you and would marry you. Nobody could love you, {Crosses l.] Ned. {Reprovingly.] Oh ! oh ! Etna. I'm going to talk just as I please now. I'm sick and tired of your schooling and your scolding. [ Crosses l.] You can keep it for your wife. But mind I won't call her cousin. Never. She shan't have that satisfaction. How old is she, anyway ? Ned. {Sinks on sofa.] Oh, a mere child yet. Etna. {Alarmed.] A child ! Oh, for goodness' sake. Cousin Ned, don't have her ! {Mildly.] She'll make you miserable. Depend upon it. {Falteringly?^ And that'll make me miserable. {Whimpering.] And we'd all be misera¬ ble. {Sinks across his knees?] Ned. {Softly and half aside.] We know love by the pain. Etna. {Starts away from him.] I know who it is now. Ned. {Joyfully.] You do ? {About to take her hand.] Etna. {Recoiling.] Don't touch me! {Severely.] It's that Mrs. Munkittrick. ' Ned. Why, what put that idea in your head ? Etna. {Blinded by her jealousy.] I ought to have seen it all along Jby the way you meet each other. You speak so lovingly and seem to have so many secrets together. And I've seen you kiss her hand as if you were going to eat it up. Ned. You are utterly mistaken. the great unknown. 41 Etna. You dare to deny it ! I'm only a girl, but I wouldn't tell an untruth for the world, since you asked me not to. And you, a man whom I always looked upon as the best and noblest creature on earth—you—you—descend to falsehood ! \T\irns from him,'] Oh, Cousin Neddie ! N'edl [On her l.] I shall tell you the truth, Etna. I did fear to do so once, but now I take courage to confess that my heart belongs to a very naughty girl ! She has bewitched me— driven all reason out of my head—made me stand trembling before her—and left me powerless to find words in which to say how dearly I love her. If you wish to see her, just look in the mirror there. That's she ! That saucy creature, with the roguish eyes, who is just beginning to blush a rosy red— the first dawn of love. Etna. [ With trembling joy y looking in the mirror. ] I ? It is I? Ned. You, and you alone. Ena. \^Turns in rapture and falls on his neck.] Oh, Ned, Ned ! Ned. My dear one ! Etna, I'm so happy! It can't be true! Yes—it is. I know it, because I love you so dearly. [He presses her to his heart ; she holds off in his arms so as to speak.] Oh, let me tell it—let me tell it to you in my own way. I know it's improper, but just this once. Ned. Well ? Etna. [Blurting out.] Cousin Ned, Cousin Ned, I'm over head and ears in love with you ! Ned. My own ! My wife ! Etna. How sweet that sounds ! Oh, I'm so happy—so foolishly happy—I must tell somebody. [The door-hell is heard to ring violently.] There's somebody now. I can't help it, I must tell 'em,^whoever it is. [Goes, L.j I'm so happy—s—so— Arabella enters at c,., in travelling costume. Etna cries out and runs up to her. Arabella stands, c., in amaze. Ena. Mamma ! He loves me ! Cousin Ned loves me ! [Embraces Arabella, then runs back and throws herself in Ned's arms.] Show her how much you love me ! [He embraces and kisses her. Arabella throws away her bags and bundles and falls gasping on sofa.] Curtain. 42 THE GREAT UNKNOWN. ACT III. Same Scene.—Next morning. As the curtain rises the stage is empty. Door-bell is heard to ring twice. Patrick crosses from r. to l., at back. Enter Ned, yVom the library, in time to meet Penelope and Mrs. Munkittrick, bowed in by Patrick, who exits. ' Penelope.. Well, how is she ? Ned. No sign yet. Pen. Have they tried to see her? Ned, Yes, Jeremiah, both the girls, and Miss Twitters. But the illustrious lady will see no one. Her French maid holds the fort. Here she is now. Agathe enters from r., and comes foricard as if to go off, l. d. Penelope meets her. Pen. Did you see that Mrs. Jarraway got the card we left this morning early ? Agathe. Oui, madame. But madame's orders were that she not be disturbed—not be distract till she give further in¬ structions. Mrs. Munkittrick. [r.] Is Mrs. Jarraway so ill ? Aga. Madame need repose—quiet absolute. I am taking her some tea now. \Exit, l. d.] Pen. What's the use of our staying now ? Ned. Yes, yes, do remain. You have come to make her a friendly call, and I beg you won't let her alone until she sur¬ renders. Besides, there may be need of some strategy on be¬ half of poor Jeremiah, and he'll want all his forces and allies. \Grosses to Mrs. Munkittrick.] You don't have a rehearsal to-day, do you ? Mrs. M. Not to-day. Ned. Then do remain. I'll report at intervals. If you feel lonely, why have up O'Donnell. He's in a cab at the corner with his eyes on the window. Mrs. M. Is he ? [Penelope goes to window.^ What a bore that man has become! \^Crosses to i..\ Don't let him see you, Auntie. He must be taught a lesson, so I'll remain. [Puts her hat and veil on sofa, and sits at piano.^ THE GEEAT UNKNOWN. 43 Ned. We'll have to have a council of war presently to con¬ sider the quickest mode of storming the French fortress. I must go and ruminate. \Eix,it8, l. arcA.] Mrs. M. [c. To Penelope.] Do come away from the window, Auntie. Pen. No, I won't. You come and give the poor fellow the charity of a glance. Mrs. M. It will be too much encouragement. Pen. Nonsense ! It's worth while doing it just to see him smile. When he smiles he's twice as handsome. \After kissing her hand to Aim.] You ought to see him now. Mrs. M. {Playing softly on the piano.^ I actually believe you're in love with him. Pen. So I am. [ Coming forwardi\ I've taken him to my heart, and any one who gets as far as that doesn't get away easily. Ah, my dear, I know a thoroughly good fellow when I see him. When a woman is left a widow at thirty—as I was—and not a bad-looking widow either, if I do say it my¬ self, and remains a widow till her hair gets gray, she learns something about men. {Points to window^ That young fellow is one in a thousand, and when I hear him speak of you and listen to his praises Mrs. M. Oh, Auntie ! Pen. He's desperately in love with you. I'll tell you, if he's afraid to. But there—let's talk of something else. {Pause, during which Mrs. Munkittrick continues to play a soft love strain. Suddenly Penelope rises, goes to Mrs. Mun¬ kittrick, and with sudden emotion kisses her on the hrow.^ Ah ! You'll be a happy wife, my dear. Mrs. M. {Stops playing and comes forward, l., going toward the fire, putting a hand on the mantle and a foot on the fender."] Don't raise my hopes, Auntie dear. He hasn't spoken a word so far. Pen. [/Sîïs, L. c.] Because you never allow him to be alone with you. How can he talk with an old dragon like me constantly by ? That's the reason there's so little marry¬ ing nowadays. The young people can't get a word alone to¬ gether. Leave them alone and see how quickly they'll come to an understanding. It was my case. My dear old mamma was by all the time, and if I hadn't helped my poor Benjamin we'd have been there yet. Mrs. M. Helped him ? How did you do that ? Pen. {After a quiet chuckle to herself] I'll tell you. We had a little globe in our parlor, just like this one on the table here. I was showing it to Benjamin quite innocently, 44 the great unknown. [^Illustrates with the globe on the table as she speaks."] and turning it round and round, when, suddenly I put my finger on a little bit of an island like this, in the great ocean, and I said, " I suppose there are happy people even there. Do you think you could be happy there, Benjamin?" Now what could the poor fellow answer but one thing: "Yes, I could —with you ! " and he seized my hand; the globe was knocked over, mamma investigated the disturbance, gave us her bless¬ ing, and we were married in a fortnight. [They rise."] Mrs. M. [At L. table. lMughs.'\ Weil, don't let your se¬ cret get out, or there will be what papa would call a corner in globes. Pen. You try it the next time you find yourself alone with O'Donnell. I'll manage to leave you together somehow. I'll make an excu.se to feed the parrot, or something. Mrs. M. [Rises quickly.^ No, no, please. Auntie, I don't know my own mind yet. And I don't want to give up my ambition for the first man that comes along, even if I like him. I do like O'Donnell, [Going m/>.] but whether I like him well enough to—I don't know. Patrick enters^ c. e. Patrick. There's a gentleman below,' ma'am. Asked me to hand you this card. He's been waiting outside in a cab some time. Pen. [Takes cardl\ It's he ! Mrs. M. This is provoking ! I shall forbid him to see me at all. Pen. [Crosses to her.'\ Here's something written on the card, " I have a message for you." It may be important ! Hadn't you better see him? [With a look at Patrick.] The servants may think it singular if you order him away. Mrs. M. As you please. [ Goes to pianoi] Pen. [To Patrick.] Show the gentleman in. [Patrick exits, c.] Now smooth your brow and don't frown. [Äii« by ßre.] Mrs. M. Don't you attempt to go and feed any parrot, or leave me alone with him under any circumstances. [Penel¬ ope goes to the fire, Mrs. Munkittrick sits at piano to play. O'Donnell appears at c. and e., with Patrick, to whom he surrenders his hat and coat, and comes forward^ CDonnell. I'm afraid I've taken a liberty. Mrs. M. I thought you gave me your promise O'D. Not to call at your house every day. I did. But I the geeat unknown. 45 thought as this wasn't your house, it mightn't be considered a call, don't you see? Pen. \Seated atßre.'\ You are quite right. What a clever lawyer you'd have made ! Ö'Z). No, I'm afraid not ; for I can't summon up pluck enough to plead a cause, no matter how much I want to win it. [To Mes. Munkittkick, ^cho still continues to playi\ I hope I'm not in the way. Mrs. M. Not in my way. [ Goes on playing^ Pen. Won't you sit down ? OP. I will. You are very good. timidly at e. c.] Pen. [After an awkward pause, during which he timidly turns to look at Mes. Munkitteick, and Penelop.e looks at him ; then she turns to look at Mes. Munkitteick, and O'Donnell turns and looks at Penelope, and Penelope finally turns and sees O'Donnell looking at her.'\ You are very quiet this morning. O'D. Oh, I've a lot to say ; [/Siojos.] but I don't know how to bring it in. [Looks aioay and around, e., as if seek' ing inspiration. Penelope rises softly, and carries the globe from the table at which she is sitting over to table at e., beside O'Donnell. His eyes have not wandered around to l., and he has not observed the action^ Pen. Shirley, dear, won't you stop pla3 Íng a moment ? I want you to look at something here. [Mes. Munkitteick rises and comes forward, and O'Donnell, in rising to meet her, nearly upsets the table and globe, bows awkwardly, and gets round to e. of table^ OP. I beg pardon. [He has caught the globe with his hands to save it.'\ Pen. Oh, you didn't injure it. [He places the globe on tahle^ Pretty little globe, isn't it ? OP. It is. [Begins to turn it.'] Pen. [Aside to Mes. Munkitteick, urging her into the chair by tabled] He's getting there. Mrs. M. [ISmiling, and aside to Penelope.] Perhaps he's been there. OP. [Sitting l. of table, and still turning the globe, but speaking to Mes. Munkitteick.] What a precious little bit of a spot the world is, after all, isn't it ? Mrs. M. [Smiling, and entering into the spirit of the thing, and turning the globe.] Very. And how little land there is for so much water ! OP. [Ihrning the globe.] Yes, there's a great deal of water. 46 the great unknown. Pm. {Turning the glohe.\ Yes, and what little bits of islands in all that water. OD. {Turning theglohe.^ Yes, and here's a little one all by itself. Pen. {TViumphantly, aside.'] He's got there. O^D. {Reflectively, looking at the glohe?^ I've often thought —haven't you—that if two people were to find themselves alone on a little island like that—away from everybody—they'd be horribly bored, don't you know ? Wouldn't they ? Don't you think so ? {Looks from one to the other. Penelope gives up in despair ; Mrs. Munkittrick bursts out in a jit of laughter; O'Donnell looks at her in distress.] I suppose I've said some¬ thing very funny. Mrs. M. {Laughing^ Oh, very. OD. I don't see the laugh myself. Mrs. M. {Pises.] No. As Captain Cuttle says, " the point of it lies in the application." O'D. Can't you let a chap in ? Mrs. M. Oh, never ! {Going l.] O'D. [ To Penelope, who comes down to remove the globe.] You'll tell me ? Pen. Stupid fellow ! [ Carries the globe to its original place, and sits by the fire, l., with her back to them.] Mrs. M. {Gentler tone, to O'Donnell.] Forgive me for laughing. It was very rude. O'Z). {In loto tone to her.] I don't mind. I've probably said something sijly. And I'm extremely sorry, because I'd like you to have a good opinion of me. Mrs. M. Do you really value my good opinion ? OD. Why shouldn't I say it ? I do. In Ireland we have a proverb which means, "If you want to leap over a ditch, and are afraid, throw your heart over first and then jump." And that's what I'm doing now. I've taken my heart in both hands, and thrown it over to you, and why shouldn't I jump after it now ? I adore the very ground you walk on, and I only wish I could prove it some way. Can I fight any body for you ? Mrs. M. Why, I never knew you could be so impas¬ sioned I 0'D. I never knew it myself before. I never was till now. But it's you that's made me. I—I wish you would like me a little. Mrs. M. Are you so badly off for friendship ? OD. Oh, I've lots of friends—horses, dogs, and children all like me, but THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 47 Mrs. M. That's a good sign. Well, you may add that I like you. O'D. Do you ? And may I hope to— \^Folloio8 her and puts an arm about her waist. She releases herself as she sees Penelope.] Mrs. M. [Looking shyly at Penelope.] Auntie ! Pen. Yes, dear. Mrs. M. Have you fed the parrot yet ? Pen. [ Turns suddenly, and sees the situation, jumps up, and in a joyful tone¡\ I declare I haven't ! But I'll do it right away. [Exit quickly, l. arcA.] Mrs. M. [After a short pause.'\ Well ? O'D. [Roiising himself] Yes ! Mrs. M. What makes you so silent all of a sudden ? O^D. I was thinking. Mrs. M. [Rising slowly.] Thinking ? O'D. Yes. 1 was thinking of my grandmother. She was a good old soul. And she used to say to me, " O'Donnell, if you" want to know whether a girl likes you, you can find out in three ways." Mrs. M. [Half turning axoay^ And what were they ? O'D. "Write her a letter, and wait till you get her an¬ swer ; or take her out for a drive or a walk, and she's sure to show it before you get back—or— " [Pause^ Mrs. M. Well? Number three ? OD. " If you're in a hurry, and.can't wait, fall on her neck and give her a kiss." [He makes a step forward. Mrs. Mun- kittrtck retreats a step and keeps an eye on him.] What do you think of my grandmother ? Mrs. M. Well, you see I don't know her. But you know me. [Darts at her. She flies up stage and is met by Patrick, who enters with an envelope^ Patrick. A messenger boy brought this. Mrs. M. [Grosses to Patrick.] How on earth did they know I was here? [Has opened the letter and reads.] It's from the theatre. They want me right away. Patrick, give me my hat and wrap. [He does 50.J And call a cab for me, please. [Patrick exits, c. r.] O'D. I'm sorry you.'ve got to go away. I had some¬ thing more to tell you that my grandmother Mrs. M. No time for that now. [Holds both ends of her veil behind her head toward him.] Here, tie my veil ! O'D. W^ith pleasure. [Does so.] Mrs. M. Tie it tightly. O'D. Yes. [Kisses her hands as they rest on her hair.] 48 THE GREAT UNKNOWN. Mrs. M. Oh, do behave. [praws on her gloves while O'Donnell ties her ve^7.] O'D. I couldn't help it. When a man sees a hand like that, he can't behave—especially if he's an Irishman. I say, this would be a good chance to try my old gr.mdmother's third plan. \PuUing her wrap over her shoulders."] Mrs. M. [Jumps aioay from hivn.] Stop ! Where's my muff ? O'D. [ Gets the muff from chair up stage, b., and offers it with his hand inside.] Here it is. Mrs. M. Thank you. Sorry to give you so much trouble. [Puts her hand to take the muff. He grasps it.] O'P. It's no trouble at all. Mrs. M. [Snatches her hand away and goes up c.] Good-by. O'D. I'm going too. [Hurries up after Aen] Mrs. M. No—no—no. O'D. But I must talk to you. I can't wait. Mrs. M. You must wait till I come back. 0'Z>. May I ? [Seizes her hand to kiss it.] You darling! Mrs. M. And when you write to your grandmother, give her my regards. [Exit, c. and l., laughing, as Penelope en¬ ters l. arcA.] Pen. Oh, you darlings ! [Looking after Mrs. Munkit- trtck.] I could just hug her ! Hug me ! [Penelope comes down and embraces him heartilyThat's the way. [Returns the hug and goes tip c.\ I'm going to write to my grandmother for further particulars. [Ekcit, c. and r.] Pen. Thank goodness, she'll have him, and then I can end my days in peace. Etna. [Heard off, l.] Don't ! don't ! Pen. What's that ? Etna runs in from l. arch. Etna. He's such a torment. ^ Pen. Who ? Etna. Cousin Ned—and he's so conceited—but he's nice. [Äiis in chair and holds up her finger, on which a diamond ring sparkles.] See what he's just given me.' Pen. A ring ! Etna. An engagement ring. comes irC from i..' arch. Isn't it a beautyl? Pen. You are engaged ? THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 49 Ned, {^Coming forward.^ Yes. Pen. \G%mng a hand to each!\ Well, rny dears, I'm de¬ lighted. I congratulate you. Etna. And I congratulate myself. Ned. \Beside Etna.J Are you happy ? PJtna. Can you ask ? \^He wants to embrace Aer.J There— that will do for the moment. Are yon, happy ? Ned. Can you ask ? \IIe seizes and kisses her before she can escape, and then takes up his hat and is going ojf.^ Ena. Where are you going like that ?. Ned. I have an appointment. Ena. An appointment—without asking me ? Now, Ned¬ die, let's settle this thing at the start. Ned. Settle what thing ? Pen. Why, Etna, child ! Etna. \ Crosses, to Penelope.] Now, Auntie, don't in¬ terfere. [Th Ned.] I'm not a child any more, and you mustn't expect to have all your own way any longer. I'm eighteen years old now, and for eighteen years I've been duti¬ ful and obedient. Now it's your tin^e ; you've got to obey me for eighteen years !—then, maybe, your turn will come again. [ Crosses, r.] Ned. \l\irning to Penelope.] She's a witch. [To Etna.] Well, I'm agreeable. What shall I do ? Ena. Well, first and foremost, go and find papa. Tell him what we've arranged about mamma, and don't leave him a minute alone. Understand ? Ned. Fully; and if you will permit me a remark, the ap¬ pointment I referred to was with your father, who is waiting for me in his room to receive our latest report [7b Penel¬ ope. ] about Arabella. \Ehit, r. 1 d.] Etna. [Looking after him • then to Penelope.] Isn't he handsome, Auntie ? Do tell me he's handsome. Pen. Why, certainly, child. Ena. Don't you think we'll be a splendid-looking couple ? [With solemnity.^ How lucky I am! Oh, Auntie, how I used to long for a sweetheart, ever since the days when Miss Twitters used to warn us to look out for the big bad man that's always going about carrying off young girls. And I've obeyed Miss Twitters so faithfully. I've looked out for that big bad man for years, wondering when he'd come, and he has come at last—the dear bad man. [Crosses ¿oPenblôpe. Ned re-enters, r. 1 d., with Jeremiah, whose appearance is decided¬ ly dejected and apprehensive.] Oh, papa, why didn't you wait till we sent for you ? 50 the geeat unknown. Jer. I couldn't. My nervous system is a complete wreck. My friends, a terrible presentiment has taken possession of me : I'm afraid Arabella is designedly withholding herself until we are all so demoralized that she can descend upon us and conquer us all at one swoop. Pen. Then, what's to be done ? Ned. Nothing until we are sure. But when we are su^e, I have a scheme. Who will help me? Pen. I will. Etna. So will I. Ned. [lb Etna.] I want Pansy, [lb Penelope.] And your niece. Pen. I'll answer for Shirley. Etna. And I'll manage Pansy. Ned. Then keep your own counsel and I'll unfold it as soon as it becomes necessary. Jer. Don't do anything rash. Ned. Rash ? No. But the happiness of too many people is at stake to suffer us to humor one sickly fancy. All we want is to bring her to reason. She is absolutely ignoring the fact that for four years she has been in the wrong in thus neglecting her husband, her children, and her household ! Well, we must enlighten her. Jer. You can't do it. Excuse me, young man, but I've known her longer than you have. Ned. [^Smiling.^ Knowing her is one thing, knowing how to manage her is quite another. Jer. Manage her? You might as well try to turn a flap¬ jack with a hat-pin. That woman has two resources—iron resolution and hysterics ! The first enables her to grasp any¬ thing; the second prevents anybody grasping her. Ned. We'll see. Agathe enters from l. door with an armful of cushions and wraps. Look out ! [Aside to others. All separate and look on.] Jer. Is—is your mistress getting up ? Agathe. Madame is coming down. [ArrangespiUows and footstool hy fire, l.] Jer. We'll be overjoyed to see her. We'll Ag. Madame requests me to say that she will send for Monsieur when her nerves are quite restored. Madame will also send for the demoiselles when she is prepared to receive them. [Pkcit, l. d.] THE GEEAT UNKNOWN. 51 Jer. Did you hear that ? Ned. We shall have to put my scheme into operation ät once.- Disappear. I'll explain outside. \Urging them off, R. ID.] Pen. [ With resolution.'] I mean to stay right here and take the -first shock. .Etna. {Taking Jeremiah's arm; he is quite depressed.] Come, papa, we'll wait till we're sent for. Jer. I feel my knees knocking together. Ned. My plan will stiffen your joints. {They all go off, r. I e., except Penelope.] Pen. [aSo/ím.] The cool impudence of some women passes belief. Here's a wife and a mother who lets her family go to rack and ruin, yet wants to rule them with her whims and ca¬ prices. Agathe enters, l. d., holding the door open, Agathe. It's only a step further, madame. Arabella enters in a very aesthetic wrapper—exceedingly jv' venile toilette. Arabella. I trust we are alone ! [Ts led to the chair by the fire.] Oh ! Aggat, I shall expire ! —Arabella is an extremely illiterate woman, who has been crazed by flattery. She sinks into the arm-chair and is refreshed by Agathe xcith a flaçon of salts, fanning, etc. Aga-TH^ places footstool more conveniently.] Pen. [ Viewing the scene with impatience.] Pah ! I must speak or I shall burst. {Gomes forward^ Well, Arabella, baven't you a word for an old friend ? Ara. {Still inhaling the salts.] Oh, is that you ? How good of you to come. But you always were a dear old thing. Pen. How are you feeling now, you dear old thing ? Ara. Oh, wretchedly ! My nerves are all unstrung. I wa& so well until I set foot in America, and then there was some¬ thing in the air that made me collapse. Pen. {Throwing off her feeling of disgnst^ Oh, the air's all right ; it's only bad for shams. We'll bring you around as soon as you get to work. Ara. Oh, I couldn't work, dear ! My brain is quite unequal to the task. I could projuice nothing worthy of me. 52 THE GREA.T UNKNOWN. Pen. I don't mean that stuff. I mean good, hearty work —going through your house, looking up your husband's com¬ forts and your children's wants—getting things in order. Ara. You positively terrify me, Penelope. Those things are for coarser natures. My atmosphere is the empyrean. Would you clip my wings ? Pen. [MiseSy decidedly.^ Yes, I would—like an old hen's that's always flying over the fence. Ara. l^Curtly, and with suppressed vigor^ Suppose we change the subject. Aggat, a dozenge. [Agathe offers her a box and she helps herself.^ Pen. Let's change—with all my heart. It's too disagree¬ able. Have you seen your husband ? Ara. I shall send for him presently. Is he quite well ? Pen. I don't know what he is by this time, after waiting hours to see you. You ought to be ashamed. Ara. ■ [ With light laugh, imitating high-bred indifference.'\ Poor dear ! How he dotes on me ! Ah ! if he would onlv be brought to recognize the difference that separates us—the gulf that divides us. Why does he try to soar? It is my province to soar, not Jeremiah's. Ah, Penelope, that man ought to have fixed his affections upon one of commoner clay. Pen. Ought he? Well, how about your children ? Ara. Pansy I have not seen. Etna.< has given me such a shock. The mere recollection makes me faint. Aggat—the flacon ! Pen. A shock ? How ? Because she's engaged ? Ara. Because I found her grown so ! Such a size ! Why, they were children in pinafores when I left. They are posi¬ tively the problems of my future. I must prepare myself be¬ fore I see and study them. Pen. Arabella, those children have grown like weeds in a double sense. You have much to reproach yourself for. Ara. If they are children of nature—unconventional, un¬ constrained—I shall be satisfied. Pen. Well, I think you'll be satisfied. \_Ooe8 up."] Jeremiah is here seen to enter, r. 1 e., urged on by Ned, who pushes him forward. Ned. Brace up I Go for her ! Now's your time ! [Pushes him forward, and exits, r. 1 e.] Jer. [Summoning up courage after two or three attempts, and advancing.^ Arabella ! — Arabella ! ! — Arabella ! ! ! [ Close to her.'\ THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 53 Ara. [Gives qitite a shriek and a start.^ Meroy ! What's that ? Jer. [Close to her^ It's I ! Your Jeremiah ! Your pre¬ cious old Jeremiah ! [He advances with outstretched arms."] Ara. Don't ! Please don't come any nearer ! [Eyes him through her lorgnette^ Oh, you darling ! You are looking so well ! I must— [Mises.^ Yes, I must—shake hands with you, [Extends her gloved hand ; he touches it gingerly^ with a look back at Penelope.] , Still the same dear old common¬ place thing—aren't you, dear ? [Looks at him through her glasses^ Jer. [Sinks hack into seat, quite chopfallen.'\ Yes, dear, I suppose so. Ara. [Sinking back into her seat, affectedly.^ And how have you been amusing yourself this long while ? Jer. [Pulling himself together, and trying to assume a gay air.^ Oh, so so ! Ara. Have you been a naughty boy? I must have the whole truth. Aggat, give me the medicated bone-hones ! [Agathe produces a silver bonbonniére¡\ Have you been very gay ? How many sirens have captured your susceptible heart ? [Jeeemiah looks at Penelope, who throws up her hands in disgust.^ Ah, I can't blame you if your fancy has strayed to creatures of an earthlier mould—to someone utterly unlike me. Jer. into seat, l. c.] Oh, I think I could get along well enough with you, Arabella, if you'd let me. Ara. My poor Jeremiah—we are separated by a gulf ! Jer. Are we ? How did you get over it ? [Rises.^ Non¬ sense ! Let's go back to old times, Arabella, when there was less poetry and more pie. [Growing familiar and folly. You remember those Thanksgiving pies you used to bake, and the crullers and the doughnuts? Eh? Come, let's get back to the old home and the old times, and live in 'em until we get this literary malaria out of your system, and then start fresh. Will you ? [Stage, e ] Ara. [Compassionately^ I see, Jeremiah, that we shall have to come to an understanding before we go a step further. Sit down. [He sti«.] You must recollect, my dear, that I am a distinguished woman in the realms of literature. But I have to pay for it. I can have no humble joys. Read my last book, "Titania Married," and you will see our respective positions graphically portrayed. Have you read "Titania Married ? " Jer. No, I haven't. 54 THE GREAT UNKNOWN. Ara. That tells the entire story of oiir mental divorce. Go, Jeremiah ! Be happy ! I shall preside over your house like a bright spirit that descends to fill it with radiance. But we must not mingle ! Jer. But, Arabella Ara. Jeremiah, are you capable of worshipping a brigbt and inaccessible star ? Jer. Is that what I must do ? Ara. Alas, my poor dear, it is. Jer. [Rises.^ Oh, hang it all, Arabella Ara. Be comforted, my poor moth, and don't burn your wings Jer. \^Going up.'\ Well, I'll be Pen. [^Aside, hoiling."] I can't keep in much longer ! Ned enter8y r. 1 d., blithely. Ned. Oh ! Ah ! Why, therè you are, both together ! How exceedingly gratifying to find you reunited. Accept ray felicitations upon your return, my dear Mrs. Jarraway. And permit me to seize upon this earliest opportunity to prefer a request which comes from the depths of my heart, and which concerns your daughter Etna. I know that I have your consent, my dear Mr. Jarraway. Jer. I don't know. Don't ask me ! Ask Arabella. I'm nobody here—nothing—only a moth ! \^Goes up in a rage.^ Ara. Jeremiah, love, be quiet. [Tb Ned.] I will give your request consideration. I have already received communica¬ tions from Pansy, and from a person named— [^Holds out her hand to Agathe, who gives her a reticule, from which she takes a letter and eyes it through her lorgnette^ a person named—" Tom." I shall give tho matter consideration. I must first see my girls and study them. If they are inclined to develop a high artistic or literary taste, you and—a—Tom must look somewhere else. My girls shall be twin stars fol¬ lowing their mother's meteoric flight. [Jeremiah wakes a despairing gesture to Ned, and the latter gives way to Pe¬ nelope, who comes forward.\ Pen. ^Trying to control herself at ßrst^ You poor mis¬ guided soul ! If I've kept in so long, it's because I thought you had a heart, and that it would make itself known. But you haven't. You keep your children at arm's length, and you're willing to let your husband go to the dogs, and all because—why ? Because you imagine yourself a genius,,when you haven't any more sense than that table. [^Raps ¿¿.] Ara. [Has been smiling in a condescending and compos- the great unknown. 55 »ionate manner upon Penelope up to this pointy now changes suddenly, with a cry of pretended pain.^ Oh I Aggat ! Ag. i^Quickly, down r. of Penelope.] Oh, madame ! [Applies restoratives.'] You have killed her ? Pen. [ TPáwes Agathe away.] You stand aside and let me finish. Ara. [Hysterically.] Ow ! Ow ! Pen. Oh, you can cry " ow " as much as you like, I am going to say my say. What has all your ink-wasting brought you ? Who reads your foolish stuff ? Who buys it ? Nobody. [Arabella try s to clutch Agathe and the flacon. Penelope interposes.] Everybody makes fun of you, except your poor deluded husband, who'd lie down and let you walk over him. You take my advice. Stick to him. Love him. Obey him. Sew on his buttons. Darn his stockings. Ara. [Punctuates each sentence with a vicious ejaculation.] Ow! Ow! Pen. You a famous woman ? You ? Because you waste whole reams of paper and gallons of ink telling what has been better told a hundred times before ! Ha ! I knew a really famous woman ! She was the wife of my shoemaker, and had ten boys, and she'd have had eleven if the last hadn't turned out a girl. She was a famous woman ! There—I've had my say, and I'm done. [ Goes up, c.] When you want to hear some more truth, send for me ! [Exit, c. l.] Ara. [Äii« bolt upright^ Never let that woman enter my house again ! [Falls hack.] Ow ! Ow ! Ag. Ah, poor madame ! [Turns her chair round so that the hack is to audience and applies restoratives.] Ned. [Aside to Jeremiah.] Well, are you willing my scheme should be tried now ? Have you any compunctions ? Jer. None. Do what you think best to secure Etna's happiness and your own. Ned. [Takes his hand^ Thank you ; and yours, and your wife's too. I hope to manage even that. Jer. Well, don't take too big a contract. You get Etty away from this house. I'll get Pansy away too. But leave us. We are doomed. [Crosses, c.] Ned. Oh, not so bad as that ! Jer. Yes, it is. We are going in the old rut. The literary female is rampant once more. " Alpha and Omega " are looming up again. [ With a sudden burst of frenzy.] If one of those reptiles dares to call me " Omega " I'll brain him with a chunk of his own density. Ned. [Trying to quiet him.] Be calm. 56 THE GREAT UNKNOWN, • Jer. [Altered tone.\ But why should 1 brain him V It isn't his fault—it's mine. [Solemnly¡\ Young fellow, you are going to be married—let me give you a piece of advice. Be loving, kind, and good to my girl. She deserves it. She's a good girl, in spite of a few faults. Be forbearing—forgive her. If she should be cross at times, as women will-—forgive her. Fond of dress—extravagant ?—forgive her. If some popinjay tries to pay her too. much attention, kick him out and forgive her. But if you ever catch her in her room, at her desk, pen in hand, and her fingers smeared with ink, adding her little drop to the bottomless sea of trashy literature—don't forgive her. Pitch pen, ink, and paper into the ßre, and bun¬ dle her off to the kitchen! Then lock yourself in your own room and ask your conscience whether you haven't been to blame in some neglect, some indifference. If you have, call her back —ask her pardon—then take her out to Delmonico's ; open a bottle of champagne and drink the first toast to your father-in-law. [Offers his hand.^ Or, what's better, put an- otlier bottle on ice and send for me. I'll come. [Exit, b. 1 d.] lied. [A'ées him off, then comes forward to Arabella.] May I ask the favor of a decision ? Ara. Not now. [She is wheeled around to face thefront.^ Would you kindly tell tiie servant to ask the young ladies to come to me ? [Ned rings hell on table, l.] I am now prepared for the ordeal. Patrick enters, c. and r. Ned. Patrick ! [ Winks at Afm.] Ask the young ladies to come here. Their mamma wishes to inspect them. Patrick. [Returning the wink.'\ If you please, sir, the young ladies are in their class-room, at their studies, and they are in their morning dishabilly. Ned. [Winks ai Patrick.] Their mamma wishes to see them—just as they are—at once—you understand—just as they are. . Pat. Yes, sir. [Exit, r. u. d.] Ned. [To Arabella.] I cannot, much as I should wish it, remain to witness the charming reunion of a mother and her daughters. Ara. [Rises.^ Oh, pray stay. There is nothing but what, I trust, would elevate and purify the beholder. [Panst is heard outside singing a enaich from some recent burlesque or opera.] Goodness gracious ! what's that ? Ned. [Solemnlyi\ The enchantment begins. [Rows and exits, c.] THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 57 Pansy hursts in from r. u. d., her head frowsy, with a long apron reaching from the neck to her knees, short child's skirts, slate in hand, with arithmetic tied to it by a string. Pansy. Hello, ma! Oh, ain't I glad to see you! \fMakes a rush for Arabella, who sits up horror-stricken and waves her frantically away,] Ara. Stop her ! Stop her ! Ag. Please, mademoiselle— [Interposes to keep Pansy off-'] Pan. Who are you holding? Let me go to my ma! [Breaks loose and flings herself on her knees, and in Arabel¬ la's lapi\ Oh, ain't I just glad to see you ! Ara. Gracious heavens ! Did any one ever see such a fright ! Are you my child ? What's the matter with your hair? Who keeps you in such a state ? Where's your sister? Etna enters, r. u. d. Etna. Here T am, ma. [She enters, with a very firm and rapid step. Her hair drawn hack and plastered over her face, and drawn down in two old-fashioned long hraids. She is en¬ veloped in a long apron, reaching to her ankles, and tied round her skirts. Has a slate and hook like Pansy's. Walks up to Arabella in a quick, husinessdike way.] How are you ? I'm glad you've got home. I think it's about time. Ara. [ Gazes from one to the other.] I think it is, too. I'm glad to see at least that you have some sense of .propriety in dress and deportment. Etna. Oh, deportment's my strong hold. [To Pansy, seiz¬ ing her hy the hair.] Get up off your knees. Miss. [Pansy shrieks, Etna lets go of her.] Ara. Good heavens ! Don't hurt your sister. Ekna. [Bluhhering.] She's always hurting me. I'm black and blue all over from her. She's so strong. Ara. My children, for goodness' sake, sit down, and let me speak to you. Sit down. [They hoth drop instantly on the floor.] I don't mean that. Get up. [They stand holt up¬ right before her.] When I saw you yesterday, Etna, although I was shocked, you had at least the appearance of a vouno* lady. Etna. I know I had. That's because I wanted to please Cousin Ned. I always behave for him. He treats me well. I'd behaved for you if you lîad taken any notice of me-last night. Pa and I waited for hours outside your door, but you 58 ïhb great unknown. locked yourself in your room. At last I said, " Let's go it," and I went it ; didn't I, Pansy ? Pan. You bet. \To Arabella..] Oh, ma, you oughter seen sis. She was at her best : summersaults all over the bed. Ara. Silence ! Something is wrong here ! Something is wrong I Etna. Not with us ! There are no flies here ! There may be one or two on you, but there are no flies on us ! Ara. Do you know anything? Ena. Miss Twitters says we know too much ! [She and Pansy burst out laughing.^ Ara. I insist upon your attending to me. Have you any education whatever ? Do you read ? Are you acquainted with the lights of literature ? Who was Shakspere ? Answer me, Etty. [Etna remains sUent.\ Pansy, who was Shak¬ spere ? Pan. I know ! The statue in the park ! Ara. [Overcome^ Oh ! Pan. {^Tantalizing her sister.Aha! aha! I knew and you didn't ! • Ara,. Go and send Miss Twitters here this instant. She shall not remain in this house. Ena. She's gone already. Ara. Gone ? Ena. Yes. I chalked her back, and she slanged me and said she couldn't remain here without lowering her dignity. Ara. Do you know anything ? Do you dance? Do you sing ? Do you play ? Ena. Pansy was learning to play the piano, but that's all up now. She's going to marry the teacher. I say. Pansy, I wouldn't let him teach me after I was married. I'd kick. Pan. Oh, one key-banger is enough in the family. I say, Etty, let's give ma a break-down. PU clap. [Begins to pat her knees and sing a walk-around. Etna darts up to begin^ while Arabella rocks herself in despair and puts her handx to her ear«.] Ara. Stop them. Pansy stop that. Aggat, stop that girl ! [Both girls flop into chairs and fan themselves with their aprons.'] Ena, Phew, ma ! But it's hot ! Ara. Oh ! oh ! oh ! I don't know whether Pm awake or dreaming. My children, you have killed me ! Pan. [Starting up.] Oh, cheer up, ma ! We'll entertain you. I say, Etty, I'll tell you !—let ma see you turn a sum¬ mersault ! the geeat tnknown. 59 Etna, \Aa Ababella screams.'] All right ! \^Takes a step hack to comply^ when Aeabbixa dashes up and seizes her on one side, while Agathe Ao/c?« her on the other.] What's the matter ? Ara. [ Vigoro%isly.] Go to your room ! This instant ! Both of you ! Pan. Ob, ma ! The fun's just begun. Ara, To your room, Miss ! Etna. All right. Come along, Pansy. [They dance öff^ e. u. d., arm in arm, Ababella reels into another seat, sup¬ ported by Agathe.] Ara. Oh, my head! My poor head! Where is Jeremiah ? Where is he ? Penelope enters, c. and l. Penelope. Is anything the matter? Ara. Anything the matter? The world's upside down. Oh, my poor Jeremiah, what he must have suffered ! Oh, my dear friend, do go and tell him to come to me ! Pen. He is coming—but you had better not see him. Oh, Arabella, why did you give him that wicked advice ? Ara. [Feebly?^ What advice ? Pen. Come away! [Jb Agathe.] Bring her away. [Urges Arabella, assisted by Agathe, to door, l.] Jer. [Heard outside, c. l.] My darling, do not fly from me. Jfrs, Munkittrick. [Outside.^ Dear Jeremiah—leave me. Ara. Jeremiah's voice—and another woman's ! [Penel¬ ope and Agathe try to drag her away, but she holds on to the knob of the door and resists their efforts to dislodge her. Penelope finally drags Agathe away, and disappears in room, l., leaving Arabella concealed by the open door from the parties who enter, and gasping.] Mrs. Munkittrick enters from c. -l., followed by Jeremiah, both apparently acting a comedy. Mrs. Munkittrick, Don't—don't say another word, I beg. Jer, I must. I must speak. Hear me, darling ; become the flower of my soul's garden, blossom in the desert waste of my life, and make me happy. Ara, [Aside.^ Heavens ! Mrs. M. But, Jeremiah, what will your wife say ? Jer. My wife ! Why, I've got her permission. She told me to fix ray fancy upon some more congenial spirit—to wor- 60 THE GREAT UNKNOWN. ship some bright, inaccessible star ! You're going to be a star, and here I am ! Come—be mine ! Let's seal it with a kiss ! [Arabella utters a wild shriek and closes the door with a hang. Jeremiah immediately changes his manner, as he notes this, and. takes a business-like tone.'\ Thank you ! \^Shakes her hand.^ I'm ten thousand times obliged. I hope this little comedy hasn't incommoded you. Mrs. M. S^Rernoving her hat and wrap.'\ Not in the least. Penelope enters from l. d, Penelope. \IIurriedly, to Jeremiah.] Go to her ! She's calling for you. Jer. {^Buttoning his coat, and triumphantly.\ Suppose we let her call a little longer. Pen. No, Now's the time, if you want to be master of the situation for life. Jer. Do I? Don't I? The situation's changed ; Vm no longer the "Great Unknown." I'm "Alpha" now ! She's " Omega." ^PJxit, l. d.] Mrs. M. Well, I hope our conspiracy will succeed. I've been dragged into it so hurriedly that I was afraid I'd be blown up in the general explosion. Pen. The collision is over, and there's only one person killed, wounded, and missing. Mrs. M. [ Waving a legal-looking paper in the air^ Look at this, Auntie ! A contract for two years. I've only io sign it, and 1 shall become the star of two hemispheres. O'Donnell appears, dejectedly, at c. r. Did you hear? [/Shakingpaper before him.] Do you see? O'Donnell. [Leaving his hat on piano as he comes down.] You won't sign it, will you ? Mrs. M. Why not ? Won't you be glad to see the world at my feet. O^D. No. There's never a happy match where the wife's greater than the husband. Mrs. M. Oh, you want to lead me, do you ? O'D. No, I want to walk beside you—^not to follow like your spaniel. You know I've come for iny answer. You promised to give it to me. What is it to be ? Mrs. M. [Meditating.] Well, I don't say "No." O'D. But you don't say " Yes." [Pausei] Let me decide for you. Give me that paper. Let me destroy it. the geeat unknown. .61 Mrs. M. I can't ! I can't ! 0'i>. Well, then, hard as it is to leave you, good-by ! {JEkait, c. and e.] Pen. [ Who has been nervously watching the above scene, trying to get a word in now and then.^ You've sent away as good a man as ever offered his heart to a woman. Mrs. M. [Agitated.^ Don't speak to me ! Don't let me waver in my purpose. [6r0cs to desk, E., and signs the paper.'] It's done ! Ned enters, c. and l. Ned. What's done ? \T.hhes O'Donnkll's hat from top of piano and, puts it behind.] Pen. Did you see the poor fellow ? Ned. I saw a poem, called " Despair," rolling down-stairs. I picked him up—heard what had happened—and came to congratulate you. Mrs. M. Oh, don't, please ! I feel as if I had thrown away all that was precious in life. Néd. Nonsense ! You've only thrown away happiness. What's that to fame—to ambition ? What's the Ipve of one man to the plaudits of a million—if they come? Tke dazzling lights, the crowded houses—if you get 'em ? To be áure, when the crowds have gone forever, and the lights grown: dim to the eye, and the music is but a faint echo of the triumphs that have fled with youth, hope, and beauty—then—-but, alas ! not till then—the love of one faithful heart will seem worth the homage of a whole world that has forgotten. Mrs. M. Don't—don't say any more. I begin to feel very —very O'DoNNELii re-enters, c. b., looking about anxiously. O'Donnell. I hope you'll excuse my returning. I'm look¬ ing for my hat ; I was sure I left it here, and now I can't find it. Mrs. M. I'm glad this chance has given me the opportu¬ nity to thank you for all your kindness. O'P. {Joyfully.] , Why, do you know that was what I was just wishing I had done : to thank you ! Yes. Just as I was going down, the thought carne to niie so suddenly that I had to sit on the top step. "You ungrateful rascal," said a voice, " have you ever had so much happiness in your life as you had while that girl let you walk and ride and talk with her, serve her and help her ? No, you thankless villain ; 62 THE GREAT UNKNOWN. and here, when she is trying to secure her own happiness in her own way, and has to say good-by, you have the impudence, you scoundrel, tO hurt her feelings by a rude and selfish fit of sulks!" "You ahe right," I said to the voice, and, by the piper, I think I recognized my grandmother's tones in it. "I'll go and apologize on the spot ! " And I got up so full of it that I missed my step and came near rolling clear down to the bottom of the stairs. [Ned tahes up the hat from piano and motions to Penelope, and both